One Last Time
by Mietta
Summary: So I had a plot bunny spurred by the fact that I've been in this lovely fandom and ship a whole year! Naturally I had to write it or it wouldn't go away. This is a future fic, and one of the many scenarios I believe could play out at the end. Lizzington of course, but tame enough that anyone in the fandom can enjoy it (i.e. it's just as much as in canon). Much love to you all!


**A/N: Fully disclaimed. I don't even know what this is. This has a lot of emotions and feels, so I guess I'll call it angst. That's good, right? It's also fun. And a little fluffy. And...humorous? Okay, I give up. Whatever it is, I hope you enjoy!**

The first time she had sat here had been seven years ago.

A lifetime, really, when you considered all that had happened. Gone was the woman sitting stiffly, legs crossed, with a soft vulnerability in her voice. A facade of ease fooling no one, even herself. He had set her off-kilter the minute he spoke, leaving her utterly defenseless. And, looking back on it now, making her wonder if it was possible to be attracted to a voice. Perhaps it was the danger that he was continually surrounded by that drew her to him, or the impossible enigma offered for her to solve. She'd always been partial to the "bad boy" persona, no matter how much she had tried to fool herself that she was perfectly happy with an elementary school teacher husband, a dog, and a nice little square house.

Of course, that husband had turned out to be a farce and one of the most dangerous people she had come across. Who, as she later learned, was put into her life by the man she now considered...well. The universe had a perverted sense of humor, didn't it? But that chapter of her life had long since been closed, and it served no purpose to dwell on it. That wasn't why she was here.

Rising to her feet, she walked over to The Box, running her hand along the red crossing beams. It was empty now, of course, and had been for quite some time. It was a scarcely used room anymore, and she was filled with an odd sense of loneliness as she looked at it. All of their work over the years, all of the criminals they had taken down...it was odd to think that it had never existed. At least in any official capacity. She had expected that coming here would help to lift the heaviness in her chest, but it had only worsened. What was wrong with her? She had had her share of this, and she wanted to let go of it. Would she ever be able to?

"Feeling nostalgic?"

It said something that she didn't even react to his presence. Her body had gotten used to it. Craved it, even. He was never far from her. Something that she used to find smothering was now so natural that she never gave it a second thought.

"Just remembering," Liz replied with a shrug.

"I wasn't aware you had clearance for reminiscing," he said flippantly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"It's amazing how far you can get by just using 'please.'" She shot a pointed look in his direction, and he looked appropriately offended.

"Are you implying that I'm anything other than a complete gentleman? Lizzie, I'm hurt," he tutted. "I was more than amicable to Agent Motjabai."

Liz rolled her eyes. "If by 'amicable' you mean 'intimidating,' I'm sure you were."

She crossed her arms, leaning back against The Box with a sigh. Reddington noted the change in her demeanor immediately, the sadness that clouded her eyes. It was all too familiar. The ache that he knew sat in her chest, the way it clenched not just the heart, but the soul too, had plagued him for years. He knew he couldn't make it go away entirely-that would never happen-but oh, how he wanted to. To see her like this...that protective instinct stirred within him, but he tamped it down. He could not fight her demons for her. He could only help keep them at bay. It was a fight she was going to have to face every day for the rest of her life.

Liz noticed Reddington studying her, face pained and grim, and she knew the answer to her question before she even asked it.

"It's not going to go away, is it?" she implored softly. He didn't answer, and she hadn't expected him to. Instead he closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out to brush her hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear. It was a simple gesture, small and light, but it brought her comfort. The warmth of his hand rested there, green eyes meeting her blue ones sadly.

"I thought coming here would help me make peace with it all," she continued. "Help me come to terms with my decisions. But…" No, it hadn't helped. If anything, it had made the ache worse. But she couldn't say it outloud.

"You learn to live with them. As hard...as hard as it may be…" His voice dropped lower and became softer, eyes unfocusing, and Liz reached up and placed her hand over his.

"Ray." There was a note of caution in her voice, and he snapped back to the present, meeting her eyes once again.

"Your decisions are your own. But you still have a choice. You have another option."

Technically, he was right. But did she really? Could she walk away? He knew as well as she did that she was unable to. Not after all of these years. Nevertheless, he was giving her a way out, as he always did. He never presumed to know what she wanted.

"It's not a choice. Not anymore."

"You're sure about this?"

"I'm not sure of anything. But I do know what I want, even if what I want is complicated. We both knew this was an inevitability."

He nodded, accepting but not agreeing. This was not the inevitability he had envisioned. He did not want this. Desired it, perhaps; but desire and want are two different things.

Liz saw him warring with his troubled thoughts, and gently squeezed his hand before pulling away.

"The five minutes Ressler gave me are almost up. He said we were on our own if we didn't get our asses out of here," she told him lightly, but it was hard to keep the fear from showing on her face. Reddington pretended not to notice, instead falling back on old habits. They die hard, after all.

"Did he now?" he chuckled. "Donald always seems to conveniently forget that I can cease to exist in sixty seconds if I so choose." Turning away from her, he made his way to the wall and continued, "Although perhaps I should amend that assertion to one-hundred twenty; you require a full minute yourself."

Liz cracked a smile, watching him curiously. What was he doing?

"So he was just being polite by giving us three extra minutes, then?"

"Precisely." Reddington paused, hand hovering over the glowing screen, looking up at the camera above his head expectantly. Half a second later a beep sounded and the keypad beside it lit up, the screen flashing a demand for the password.

"How did-Aram. Of course." Even after seven years, the way he worked situations to his favor never ceased to surprise her.

"Sixty seconds," he informed her. Six taps later, The Box was sliding open with the alarms blaring in their ears. He moved quickly and with purpose; Liz just had time to glance at the flashing screen before hurrying after him: J-U-L-I-E-T.

Liz watched in fascination as he flipped his signature fedora off of his head, placing it just-so on the table, and pulled out a small folded piece of paper, wedging it into the band. A smirk graced his lips, and he turned away just in time to fall into step beside her as they made their way to the exit.

"What was that about?"

"Just a little parting gift for Donald," he replied cheerily, dropping his hand to the small of her back.

They made it to the exit with thirty seconds to spare before Assistant Director Donald Ressler was charging down the steps to The Box, a team at his heels. He knew they were gone before the alarm had even sounded. The team fanned out and searched the room, but of course they found nothing. Like Reddington was always too fond to remind him, he could cease to exist whenever he so chose.

Ressler looked at the open Box suspiciously, not sure what to make of the fedora sitting on the small round table. He picked it up gingerly, half expecting it to be rigged to blow. Instead, a simple strip of paper sat folded in the brim. Tugging it out, he was careful to school his expression into one of neutral interest, although the smile almost escaped.

"Son of a bitch," he swore softly, and as he pocketed the note and turned away, that rebellious smile broke free.

 _One Last Time?_

 _#1: Raymond Reddington_


End file.
